


In Tune

by greygerbil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unlike his brother, Mycroft prefers the grand piano to the violin; Greg is eager to hear more and then pulled into the performance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Tune

“You ever use this thing?”

Greg stood in the living room of Mycroft’s house in front of the piano. From a chandelier above him, light poured onto the big wooden instrument, which cast a stark shadow on the plush red carpet.

“Why else would I own a concert grand?”

Mycroft stepped softly up beside him. His three-piece designer suit had made him stick out in the organised chaos of the busy police station when he had come to pick up Greg, but here, he fit in effortlessly with the long, stern lines of antique bookcases that reached from floor to ceiling and the expensive cushions on heavy armchairs by the fireplace.

“I dunno. Seems like the kind of house that you’d expect one to be in.” Also an unmarried daughter to play it for the guests while the servants served supper, but now Greg was just projecting things he’d seen on BBC reruns of _Pride and Prejudice_ with his ex-wife. “I guess I didn’t take you for a musician.”

“Our mother wanted to give us something to pour our creativity into. I dabbled in the violin like Sherlock, but it always was a bit too... playful for me.”

To Greg, both violins and big old pianos were pretty serious, the kind of instruments you heard mostly in classical concerts, but he didn’t argue the point. Instead, he let his gaze go back to the concert grand. It had to be eight or nine feet long, polished, smooth, dark wood with simple yet beautifully precise golden borders and carved, angular floral decorations winding around the thick feet.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a big piano before. Maybe on a stage.”

“It’s a bit of an indulgence,” Mycroft admitted, not without fondness. “But I find an upright is just not the same. The sound is in the body.” Mycroft’s long, elegant fingers glided along the curve of the piano as he circled it. “This is a 1904 Bechstein from Berlin.”

Well, that was new. Greg hadn’t yet seen a side of Mycroft that was interested in something not business-related or a brainteaser – other than himself, that was, but Greg believed he, or whatever emotions he caused, actually fell into the second category.

“Wouldn’t it be better to have a new piano?”

“That’s hard to say categorically. I prefer the older builds. There is familiarity between the same models of the same maker, but a certain individuality to each one. They were not yet mass-produced and over a hundred years, the travels, repairs and replaced parts leave each instrument with its own voice. It has character.” He opened the fall board, revealing a row of worn, ever so slightly uneven yellowed and black keys. “Ivory.”

“Lots of dead elephants,” Greg noted, looking down at the keys.

“Blood was shed for this instrument, possibly that of a few hunters, too,” Mycroft agreed.

“I guess that’s also part of its character?”

“Indeed.”

That had sounded more reverent than anything. Greg never dared to forget that Mycroft was one of the most dangerous men in Britain, one who had probably ordered more hits than Greg had solved murders in his career, but there were special moments that left the hair on the back of his arms standing. To distract himself, he reached out to touch the ivory keys, but stopped just short of making contact. He didn’t think there was anything he could break by plonking on the keyboard, but he didn’t want to risk detuning Mycroft’s no doubt ridiculously expensive century-old piano on the second date.

“Are you gonna play something for me?” Greg asked.

“Gladly.”

With a gesture, Mycroft showed Greg towards one of the armchairs by the unlit chimney. Greg turned it with considerable effort towards the piano while Mycroft propped the lid up with a slim pole and sat down at the instrument.

“You really have to hear the _Gaspard de la Nuit_ all in one piece, but I’m particularly fond of the first movement, _Ondine_.” Mycroft’s French sounded native to Greg, with not even a hint of an accent.

“Alright.”

Greg wondered if the men Mycroft usually took home could knowingly nod at that announcement. _Ah yes, Gaspard de la Nuit_. He fell down in the chair, trying to get comfortable, but stretching out like he usually did seemed unfitting as Mycroft’s hands set down and brought the piano to life with the beautiful fluency of a concert pianist.

It was a short piece, light and bright. The succession of high notes was insanely fast, but offset by a few deeper, slower ones that carried a melody that reminded him of a river flowing by. Taken in by the sight of Mycroft sitting perfectly still at the piano, only his hands flying over the keys, Greg needed a moment to realise that Mycroft was simply looking impassively over the concert grand, no sheets before him.

When the music stopped on a low, reverberating note, Greg woke as if from a trance. He’d been sitting with his elbows leaning on his knees, staring forward.

“Sounds great.” He smiled. “Obviously.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft turned on the chair to look at him. “Ondine is a legendary figure, a water elemental that was said to bring death to unfaithful husbands.”

The description made him laugh. “Is that some sort of warning for me?”

“If I thought that was necessary, you wouldn’t be here,” Mycroft said easily. “You used to play a little, didn’t you?”

Though Greg had never told Mycroft, he was sure the question was only a matter of politeness. Mycroft would have read it from what Greg had had for lunch, or the colour of his ties, or the way he’d looked at the piano sideways, or something.

“Very little. When my daughter was younger, she used to have a keyboard that I helped her practice on.”

“That will do. Come.”

With a frown, Greg got up and walked over, surprised to see that Mycroft had only scooted over a little on the broad stool. He sat down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. The difference in their heights became even more pronounced because he was slumping a little and Mycroft sat as if he had a rod for a spine, as usual.

“I really don’t remember much,” he warned.

“Play anything.”

“Don’t blame me if it sounds bad, then.”

The ivory keys gave away under his fingers, a simple, solid, repetitive melody. Mycroft listened and then his hands joined Greg’s on the piano. Working from the basis of Greg’s little tune, he improvised a cascade of flourishes that made it sound like actual music.

Greg kept on repeating his five-tone song for a while, and then, experimentally, stretched out his arm and pushed a finger down on the highest note he could reach. There was a tiny, audible hitch in their melody as Mycroft’s fingers scampered to make up for the discordant note. Greg pushed into him slightly as he did the same for the lowest note and then kept up the rhythm they’d established, but pushed keys at random. Mycroft leaned forward, listening intently as he worked to produce a theme out of chaos.

“Not bad,” Greg said with a grin, lifting his hands.

Mycroft raised a brow.

“Cooperation does not seem to be your strength.”

“Yes, it is. If I’d simply kept playing what little I remembered of _Itsy Bitsy Spider_ , you wouldn’t have gotten to show off,” Greg pointed out. “And I don’t like it when you Holmes men get bored. Never ends well.”

Mycroft smiled, eyes sharp on him.

“It wasn’t boring,” he allowed. “It rarely is with you.”

It occurred to Greg that he might just have gotten a pretty substantial compliment.

“You have a feeling for rhythm. You must have played something else – a guitar in some school band?”

Greg grinned. “You’d think, right? Actually, I played the recorder in the school orchestra, like my nana wanted.”

“Ah, wind instruments. I never had the lungs for them, but they do cultivate valuable talents applicable in many fields.”

_You learn blowing_ , Greg’s mind supplied. He whipped his head around and stared at Mycroft.

“Bloody hell, did you just make a dirty joke?”

Mycroft smiled, superiority radiating from him. “ _You_ apparently did, in your head. That is hardly my fault.”

He rose from the chair. Greg didn’t question that Mycroft had more or less read his mind. He did that.

“I simply meant that because of your prior training you have quick fingers... which undoubtedly makes playing the piano much easier.” Mycroft turned away to grab the stick that held up the lid and carefully shut the piano top.

The small pause after the praise of his supposedly clever hands hadn’t escaped him. Greg laughed. Mycroft flirting was like being presented with little puzzles.

“Very clever,” Greg said. “But if I didn’t get it, how’d you bring me up to the bedroom, being that subtle?”

“It helps to keep the company of someone who is both slightly witty enough to understand me, and sufficiently unsubtle enough to let me know he did,” Mycroft said, offering his hand.

For a moment, Greg looked back at the preciously harvested ivory keys, suddenly aware he was crossing the line right now, from acquaintance to lover, and more importantly from contact to target. One of the most dangerous men in Britain, with enemies that were probably just waiting to find another screw to turn, and that wasn’t even talking about what _Mycroft_ could do if Greg should somehow manage to piss him off...

Greg should probably be more frightened, but lucky for Mycroft, he wasn’t as smart as a Holmes, now, was he? It was his right to do something stupid every once in a while because he wanted to.

“So I passed your test. What an honour.” Greg grabbed his hand. “Let’s see what I remember from music class, then.”


End file.
